


Hedylogos

by ShushSherlock



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adorable John, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Greek Mythology, Cliche, First Kiss, Flirting, Fluff, Human Sherlock, John is a God, Light Angst, M/M, Magic, POV Sherlock Holmes, Rating May Change, Schmoop, Sherlock is a Mess, Summer Vacation, Switch John, Switch Sherlock, Symbolism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-08
Updated: 2019-04-18
Packaged: 2019-06-23 22:55:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15616839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShushSherlock/pseuds/ShushSherlock
Summary: John is the literal god of sweet-talk and flattery. However, he's been nearly forgotten and has just enough power left in him to appear on Earth. Can he find someone to help him or is he doomed to oblivion?Sherlock is human. He's on holiday away from London and staying in a small cottage. He frequents the nearby forest to gather poisonous plants and study them. He thinks he just needs some peace and quiet but, as we all know, a genius needs his audience...





	1. A peculiar sight

Eyes snapping open, Sherlock jolted up from the narrow, tatty sofa he'd been lying on. He frowned at the piece of furniture as if it were responsible for some terrible offense against him.

 

He'd settled down to _think_ , not to fall asleep, but here he was, the first rays of morning sunshine forcing him to squint his eyes as he looked around.

 

The cottage was small and anything but modern, and a light layer of dust covered everything Sherlock hadn't touched or otherwise disturbed during his stay. That didn't bother him – Sherlock had never particularly cared for tidiness or organisation outside his mind or scientific endeavours. In fact, since he'd arrived, Sherlock had made himself at home by leaving his things lying around, only adding to the clutter of the already tight space.

 

There were several journals and notebooks scattered around atop various surfaces, his microscope perched on the small wooden dining table, and his violin case propped up against the side of the sofa. The tiny kitchen had been put to use mainly as a laboratory.

 

Standing up and stretching, Sherlock fought back a yawn and then glared harder at the old sofa. He refused to admit he'd been at all tired. He didn't get tired. Sleeping was _dull_.

 

What a waste, Sherlock thought as he tried his best to smooth out the creases in his clothes.

 

He had the cottage to himself for the rest of the summer and it was only the middle of June, but Sherlock hated wasting what he saw as valuable thinking time. He considered his mind his most precious asset, ruthlessly casting aside anything that threatened to slow him down or distract him.

 

Sherlock was brilliant, and he knew it. That was why he was here, had temporarily become a hermit with only his own thoughts and his mind palace as his companion. It was exactly what he'd wanted; peace and quiet without the incessant _noise_ created by London's countless idiots.

 

Although… if someone were interested in his methods and showed genuine curiosity–

 

Sherlock shook his head slightly.

 

That was a train of thought he refused to follow further. People, without exception, lost any interest in him as soon as he opened his mouth. And that was fine with him. _Perfectly fine_.

 

Rather grouchy, Sherlock packed his backpack and headed out into the forest behind the cottage.

 

 

* * *

 

It was early, but birds had already started their usual chirping high up in the trees and all around him as Sherlock walked.

 

There were other animals as well, of course, and for some reason they did not fear him. That baffled Sherlock. He'd made no effort to appear harmless or approachable, save for leaving the creatures be.

 

He heard a soft rustle to his right, took one look, and rolled his eyes with a sigh. "Go away," Sherlock said and continued his determined walk along the barely visible path through the woods.

 

Disgruntled, he sank back into his thoughts and only became aware of his surroundings again some fifteen minutes later. He glanced over his shoulder and then stopped, turning around.

 

"I told you to go away," he said and glared.

 

He was staring down at a fox that stood in the middle of the path, a few feet away.

 

The fox simply stared back, looking unimpressed.

 

The very same animal had taken to following him whenever he decided to embark on one of his trips into the forest and Sherlock couldn't for the life of him figure out why. He had nothing to offer and he was reasonably sure he wasn't even good company.

 

Still, the fox stayed. It would always follow a few feet behind, never coming much closer but clearly keeping an eye on his every move. Sherlock gave it one more displeased look and then gave up, choosing to turn around and continue forward. After all, he had things to do. Matters to focus on.

 

He conjured up his list to briefly review it and then stepped off the path, heading east. He knew precisely where he was going and so, a while later, he arrived at a clearing. It was a place he'd visited only once before during his stay but had firmly memorised.

 

Smirking, Sherlock walked forward. Perhaps the day wasn't doomed after all.

 

He crossed the patchy overgrown grass and carefully avoided a nest of mining bees. _Colletes_ , he thought with passing fascination.

 

Arriving at the opposite edge of the clearing, Sherlock lowered his backpack on the ground and crouched down to study the plant in front of him. It was exactly what he'd been looking for. With a small smile of satisfaction, Sherlock pulled out a notebook and a pen from his backpack and began scribbling down notes.

 

He was so concentrated on his writing that his brain hardly registered the first sound of branches cracking behind him. The damned fox, he thought, not moving.

 

**_Crack_ **

This time the sound was far too loud to be caused by the delicate paws of a fox. Sherlock frowned, and his hand stilled in the middle of a sentence. Was he about to be ambushed by a bear? The idea was… less than pleasant. He knew the odds of survival weren't spectacular even in his case if such an attack occurred.

 

Licking his lips, Sherlock lowered his notebook and stood. He turned around slowly, unsure why he felt so nervous despite the fact no actual danger had yet presented itself.

 

But then…  when Sherlock looked across the clearing towards the way he'd come, his breath caught in his throat. His eyes had landed on _a man_.

 

Not a normal man. He couldn't be.

 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. Why not? He was immediately irritated that he couldn't tell for sure. Well, not besides the _obvious_.

 

The man was dressed in what looked like a costume but, Sherlock realised, wasn't. It suited him too well; he looked too comfortable in it. As if he were wearing a regular pair of jeans and a shirt instead of… a chiton.

 

Sherlock stared.

 

The man inclined his head slightly and then began to walk forward, approaching.

 

Sherlock drew himself to his full height to look as imposing as possible and schooled his face to display nothing but indifference. Still, he couldn't help raking his eyes over the man's figure as he moved.

 

The man was barefoot but seemed completely at ease, not glancing towards the ground even as he avoided the same nest of bees Sherlock had sidestepped on his way across the clearing. His skin was golden brown, kissed by the sun, and he didn't seem cold despite his ridiculous attire. It was still so early that the man should have been shivering in the morning sun. But he wasn't. He looked calm.

 

Sherlock wanted to say something, maybe demand the man for an explanation, but found himself quite speechless. He had seen his fair share of bizarre things but this man… He was something new.

 

The man kept walking until he was two feet away, and then stopped.

 

"Το στολή σου είναι παράξενο," he said.

 

Sherlock blinked dumbly. "Excuse me?"

 

The man seemed to find Sherlock's reaction amusing as a grin spread across his face and he nodded, murmuring something else to himself. He then looked Sherlock up and down before opening his mouth again. This time Sherlock understood.

 

"What a peculiar sight."

 

Sherlock frowned and snorted. " _I'm_ a peculiar sight?"

 

The man's eyes stared at Sherlock's face now, examining his features with an intensity he was not used to. He nodded again.

 

"A peculiar beauty."

 

At that, Sherlock's brain short-circuited.

 

Gaping at the man, he considered two possibilities:

  1. He'd just met a frighteningly intriguing escapee from the nearest psychiatric hospital
  2. His fragile transport had finally snapped and as a result he'd started hallucinating



 

The man laughed at Sherlock's expression, closing his eyes and positively relishing in the gentle sunlight that bathed his form. His dirty blonde hair reflected the light in a way that made a tiny part of Sherlock want to ask him about his hair care routine.

 

"You are quite sane," the man said as if reading Sherlock's mind, waving his hand a little.

 

Sherlock gritted his teeth and looked down his nose at the man, finally regaining his ability to speak. "I'm sorry, who the hell are you?"

 

That seemed to make the man more serious. His smile faded and his brow furrowed.

 

"I'm… I must be... Hm." He looked genuinely unsure.

 

Sherlock huffed. "You don't know who you are?"

 

His eyes became unfocused for a moment. Once again, he murmured something Sherlock couldn't understand.

 

"Ἰωάννης."

 

Sherlock tilted his head to the side, confused. Then the realisation struck him. "That's your name?"

 

Frustration flickered across the blonde's face. "No. Yes," he replied. He shut his eyes and stood still with a look of intense concentration for several seconds. Sherlock didn't dare to speak.

 

Then, as suddenly as he'd retreated into his own mind, the strange man looked up at Sherlock again and his face brightened, smile returning.

 

"John. I am John."

 

Sherlock quirked up an eyebrow, disbelief in his eyes. "John," he said, testing out the name. Strangely, it seemed to suit the man as well as his odd outfit did. An ordinary, easy name for someone so… curious. That left Sherlock suspicious. John was becoming more and more complex by the minute.

 

"What is your name?" John asked in turn, seemingly oblivious to Sherlock's wariness.

 

"Sherlock," he answered plainly.

 

John looked delighted. "Fair-haired," he said, eyes moving up to ogle the dark mop of curls atop Sherlock's head.

 

Sherlock felt his face heat up and grumbled. "It was not my choice."

 

John's smile changed into confusion again. "But you've made it yours, yes? It means you."

 

Blinking and making a soft, rather embarrassing sound, Sherlock resorted to nodding. The way John's eyes swept over him, the way they _drank in_ the sight as he stood there… it was electrifying.

 

It was infuriating that he couldn't tell if John was aware of this effect. How could his face be so open, so like an open book, and yet not reveal what he truly was?

 

John's eyes fell from Sherlock to his backpack on the ground. He walked over to it, picking up the notebook and studying it. Sherlock followed him with his eyes but didn't stop him, even though he usually detested people touching his things without permission. A frown appeared on John's face and he held the notebook closer to his eyes, squinting at it. Sherlock wondered if he was struggling with the handwriting or the language in general. He sounded English when he spoke and yet... it seemed foreign to him.

 

"What do you do, Sherlock?" John finally asked. He had looked up from the notes and didn't seem affected by the fact he'd found Sherlock staring back at him intensely. Normally, people disliked the way he stared at them. It made them nervous, he'd heard. It was rude. 

 

"I'm a consulting detective."

 

"Detective," John repeated thoughtfully, glancing between the notes and Sherlock's face. He laughed softly. "But these are plants, Sherlock. You consult plants?"

 

Sherlock frowned. "What? No, of course not-"

 

He was interrupted by John's smile once again faltering, his eyes going wide and some more of the language Sherlock did not speak rolling off his tongue. Even though Sherlock did not know the meaning, he knew what John had said was some sort of curse, an expression of shock.

 

"Oh, you help! Detective, that means you find things. You can help me," John said gleefully. 

 

"Help how?"

 

At the question, John let the notebook fall back onto the backpack. He turned to Sherlock and held out a hand. Sherlock looked at it warily, confused as to what John was getting at.

 

"I'll show you," John said as if it were the most obvious thing to do, beckoning Sherlock closer. When the detective did not make a move, John stepped towards him and, before Sherlock could protest, grabbed hold of his hand.

 

Suddenly, Sherlock did not see the forest around them. In fact, he did not see anything. Pure darkness. He could _feel_ something though. It was... painful, Sherlock realised. Agony. An endless void, a hopeless emptiness where nothing existed around him and he did not exist anywhere. He was and he wasn't. He had no name but he could feel every regret of his lifetime, every failure, every niggling thought that bothered him like some thoughts bothered all humans in the dark of the night. 

 

It was _hell_. Sherlock screamed. He cried.

 

And then, in a heartbeat, he was back in the forest, John's hand in his as he stood panting and gasping for air.

 

Sherlock yanked his hand away from John's. John's face was forlorn, his blue eyes wide and moist. 

 

"What... what was that?" Sherlock demanded, stumbling away from the blonde. He wanted to regain his composure immediately, to put his walls back up and possibly shout at John – or whatever the _thing_ in front of him was – until it left him alone and disappeared.

 

"I am sorry. I had to show you so you'd understand," John said carefully. He seemed taken aback by the intensity of Sherlock's reaction. "You are mortal... I should've known. It is worse for you. But I need your help, Sherlock. You can help me. I know you can."

 

Sherlock's eyes were wild as he looked at John. He was doing everything to go back to being aloof – his completely calm and collected usual self.

 

"I... What are you?"

 

John released a heavy sigh and looked up at the beautiful blue sky above. He hoped he hadn't just destroyed his very last hope that could save him from oblivion. It was, after all, such a pleasant-looking last hope he'd found. 

 

"As I told you.. My name is John. To you," he said after a moment, clasping his hands behind his back. "But I am no man."

Sherlock snorted but he looked no less rattled. "You look very man to me."

 

John ducked his chin just slightly and then looked at Sherlock through his lashes. He licked his lips and considered his words, revealing to Sherlock that he was about to say something equally preposterous again.

 

"Sherlock, I'm the god of flattery. The form you see... well."

 

"Well what?!"

 

"This form is designed to your liking."

 

 

 


	2. Aconitum napellus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John surprises Sherlock. In many ways. Outfit choices are questioned.

Sherlock's expression was indignant, his eyes stormy and defiant, but he struggled to respond. He had never met anyone so infuriating, anyone who made him so curious, who was supposed to be easy to read but absolutely wasn't.

 

John was all that and kept looking at him in a way he couldn't understand either. It was like he knew Sherlock, was completely and utterly comfortable with him, and somehow wanted nothing but to continue looking at him.

 

It was ridiculous, Sherlock knew. He felt his heart pounding in his chest, even after the shock of what he'd just experienced faded away. Stupid heart, betraying him.

 

"I… don't understand," he finally spat out and shook his head.

 

Like Sherlock's horror, John's concern and remorse had faded. He saw that Sherlock was unharmed and his mouth quirked up again, his eyes knowing.

 

"You do understand, Sherlock," he said which only made Sherlock huff and glare at him harder.

 

John then sighed quietly and glanced away into the distance. When he returned his gaze to Sherlock, he was once again eyeing his clothes as if Sherlock were the one dressed weirdly.

 

"What century is this?"

 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. " _Obviously_ the 21st, are you seriously suggesting-"

 

John cut him off with a laugh and grinned. "And is that what you all wear now?"

 

Sherlock looked down at himself and blinked. He was wearing one of his black suits, the top buttons of his white dress shirt undone. It might have been an odd outfit choice for a trip into the forest, but he was Sherlock Holmes, and he _did not care_.

 

But what did John mean by that? Was he making fun? It certainly sounded like he was. The corners of Sherlock's mouth turned downward, and a slight pout appeared on his lips.

 

"If that's the case, it's certainly an improvement to the past," John commented.

 

At that, Sherlock's eyes snapped up again. He cleared his throat and tried to appear nonchalant as he pushed his hands into his pockets.

 

"It's just what I wear."

 

John's eyebrows lifted and he hummed thoughtfully. He couldn't fault Sherlock for the suit. It wasa sight worth appreciating.

 

"You must be quite extraordinary."

 

Sherlock's eyes widened and he took in a surprised breath. That wasn't the sort of thing people said to him. The most compliments he'd received from his parents, years ago, because they, quite inexplicably in his opinion, had always loved him despite the fact that everyone else disagreed.

 

He wasn't sure why John would say something like that. But… he'd said he was the god of flattery, hadn't he? A god, Sherlock thought. A bloody god. Impossible. He wanted to start arguing and glaring again but decided against it.

 

"Why do _you_ wear _that_?" He nodded towards John's chiton.

 

John's brow furrowed a little and he looked down at himself in the same way Sherlock had. He seemed truly confused by the question. Then he smiled joyfully up at Sherlock once again.

 

"Ah, I see. Hold on," he said, holding up a finger as he closed his eyes. An expression of intense concentration appeared on his face. Sherlock was unsure what to expect, wondering what on Earth John was doing.

 

Then Sherlock blinked once. A mere millisecond passed. He stared at John, now in utter disbelief.

 

John was no longer wearing the chiton. Instead, he was dressed in a deep blue striped jumper, paired with jeans that looked well-worn. He wasn't barefoot anymore, his feet instead in a pair of leather shoes that clearly were not brand new either, but were still clean and well-maintained.

 

Something in Sherlock's chest tightened. He had no idea why, but John looked familiar.

 

"Better?" John tilted his head to the side.

 

Sherlock made a face and did his best to look haughty. "An awful jumper? Unflattering jeans? Suit yourself," he said.

 

John's laugh was gentle. His smile didn't waver. "Oh, you are funny."

 

Sherlock turned away with a scowl. He crouched down next to his backpack and grabbed his notebook, finishing the sentence he'd been in the middle of writing. He heard John move to stand next to him but didn't pay him any attention.

 

"What are you doing?"

 

Sherlock hummed. "Something important."

 

"Why is that plant so important?"

 

"I need a sample of it."

 

"Oh."

 

Sherlock was forced to look up when he saw John move forward and reach out his hand.

 

"Don't!" he tried to warn the blonde, but he was too late. John had already grabbed a stem and yanked it from the ground. He turned to smile at Sherlock, holding out his hand. Sherlock gaped at him.

 

"You idiot, that's _Aconitum napellus_!" 

 

John blinked at him in confusion, glancing at the plant.

 

"Wolfsbane, John," Sherlock gritted out like he couldn't understand why John wasn't reacting.

 

John shook his head.

 

"The whole plant is poisonous! Extremely so! You're not supposed to go grabbing it with bare hands!" Sherlock glared at John, standing up and reaching his hands up to tug at his curls in exasperation.

 

"Well, for heaven's sake, drop it! You'll poison yourself!"

 

John shrugged slightly and let the stem fall out of his hand, watching as Sherlock scrambled to pull a pair of thick gloves as well as a glass jar from his bag. He carefully picked up the sample and jammed it into the jar, letting out a sigh after putting a lid on it and stuffing it into his backpack.

 

"Show me your hand," he demanded then, taking a step towards John who still looked like saw no reason to be upset. He slowly held out his hand for Sherlock to examine, continuing to watch the man curiously while he did so.

 

Sherlock squinted at John's palm. He could see no irritation on his skin.

 

"Do you feel pain?"

 

John shook his head. "I'm fine. There is no reason to worry."

 

"But… the poison, John-"

 

A hand was placed on Sherlock's arm.

 

"This type of poison is harmless to me," John said, his voice soft.

 

Sherlock felt dumbfounded. He had surprised himself with his strong reaction to John's reckless action. But there was nothing he could do. The plant _was_ terribly poisonous, and just touching it could indeed kill you, but if John truly hadn't been affected… Could that be?

 

"It's fine, Sherlock," John murmured. He let his hand fall from Sherlock's arm, leaving him with a funny tingling sort of sensation.

 

"Thank you for your concern though. It was brave of you."

 

Sherlock swallowed and turned to pick up his backpack, muttering something under his breath. He felt the tell-tale heat of a blush on his cheeks and silently cursed his unreliable transport. It would not do to become flustered every time John gave him some sort of compliment.

 

Sherlock put the gloves in his bag and then turned in the direction he'd come from to find the clearing. "Let's go then."

 

He'd taken a few steps when he realised John wasn't following and turned to look over his shoulder.

 

"Where are you going?" John asked, standing there in his jumper with a wide-eyed look of bewilderment on his face.

 

"You said you wanted my help," Sherlock replied. He kept his eyes firmly on John's face.

 

"Are you coming or not?"

 

At that, John blinked once and then started walking.

 

* * *

 

On the way back to the cottage, John stayed silent. Sherlock could feel him as a presence behind his back as he walked, the sensation odd but not entirely unpleasant. He knew John was observing him, watching as Sherlock easily navigated the woods and found the path that led to their destination.

 

Sherlock thought the silence was rather nice as it gave him an opportunity to think. And he desperately needed to think. He had _not_ gone into the woods expecting to return with a companion – a person of all things – and on top of this shock, he'd also been confronted with the unbelievable claim that John wasn't even human.

 

He'd said he was a god, something Sherlock wanted to scoff at still because he didn't believe in  _a god_ , singular, let alone many of them. But what John had showed him… it had been terrifying. Nothing Sherlock had experienced in his life compared to that void. And John's clothes. He'd changed in the blink of an eye. New clothes had materialised from thin air. It was against everything Sherlock knew and it simply wasn't possible.

 

Unless John was telling the truth.

 

Sherlock cringed. It was just his luck. Mummy and Mycroft had always said he found trouble wherever he went, and if he didn't go to it, it came to him. Now here he was, taking the god of flattery (apparently) to his place.

 

And what had John said about forms? That his form was designed… for Sherlock? He wasn't sure what that meant but he didn't like the sound of it. It sounded far too much like a trap, something to lure him in.

 

But Sherlock couldn't deny that John was, for lack of a better term, pleasant. The way he spoke was calm and hopeful, the compliments rolling off his tongue with ease and genuine appreciation. He laughed easily and not a single time had it sounded malicious. He'd simply seemed _endeared_. Sherlock was also fascinated by the fact that there was something else in him, as well. Under the surface, something more than bright laughter and gentle smiles. An undercurrent of power.

 

It was a nice addition – not that Sherlock cared in the least – that John wasn't terrible to look at. He was not tall by any means, but the strength of his shoulders was visible even now that he wore that utterly dull jumper. His hands were much smaller than Sherlock's, but they were nimble, and one of them had touched Sherlock's arm with an unfamiliar warmth.

 

Somewhere in the back of Sherlock's mind, a small voice spoke up.

 

_Admit it. You're excited._


	3. Ranunculus asiaticus

When John saw the cottage, he broke the silence and drew Sherlock out of his thoughts.

 

"That's your home?"

 

Sherlock couldn't help chuckling slightly at how little John knew. His flat in central London was far from this place, even if it did share _some_ qualities with the cottage (namely the lack of free space).

 

"I don't live here, I'm on holiday," he said.

 

Sherlock heard a soft snort in response to his words. "You spend your holiday finding poisonous plants."

 

"I suppose I'm technically not on holiday then," he replied, leading John to the door.

 

John laughed, and Sherlock silently appreciated the sound as he fished the key from his pocket.

 

"After you," Sherlock said without thinking, moving aside as he held the door for John. He wasn't sure why he'd done so but the positively surprised look on John's face was worth it.

 

After stepping inside, John began looking around, his eyes curiously sweeping across everything Sherlock had left lying around. He fixated on the microscope for a moment, walking over and carefully running his fingers along the base of it. Sherlock, somewhat out of his depth, didn't say anything despite being extremely particular about his valuables. He simply stopped to watch.

 

Then, Sherlock shook himself out of the odd little trance John seemed to have the power to impose on him and began unpacking his bag. He took out the sample jar and his notebook, taking a seat at the dining table to continue writing down his observations.

 

Sherlock still watched John out of the corner of his eye, allowing him to move around the cottage and ogle Sherlock's belongings to his heart's content.

 

"Anything interesting?" Sherlock inquired when John came to a stop in the middle of the living area, having wandered through the kitchen, the small bathroom, and bedroom. He'd even put his head out of the back door to observe the terrace at the back of the building.

 

John turned to look at Sherlock, glancing him over.

 

"Oh, plenty."

 

How mysterious, Sherlock thought. He quirked up an eyebrow and went back to his notes. Was there hunger in John's eyes?

 

"There are mice in the kitchen," John said then. He sounded amused.

 

Sherlock hummed. "Mm, yes. They're dead."

 

"I noticed."

 

"You must have the gift of observation," Sherlock said sarcastically, a smirk tugging at his lips. He kept his eyes on the paper.

 

John did not laugh but he didn't seem insulted either. He simply grabbed a free chair and sat down opposite of Sherlock.

 

"I have many gifts."

 

Sherlock stopped writing and looked up, eyes narrowed. "You say you're a god."

 

John nodded. He sat with his back straight and hands in his lap. "You don't believe me," he murmured.

 

Sherlock sighed. "John, I do not believe in an omniscient being. Or beings. I work with facts, and facts only."

 

Something flickered in John's eyes. He looked understanding, but Sherlock could sense an aura of frustration around him, a hint of disappointment at the insistence of Sherlock's scepticism.

 

"Look, the place I showed you, it's important. It's why I need help," John began. "You're not the only one who doesn't believe in us– I mean, anything."

 

Sherlock's eyebrow crept up again. Us?

 

John's tongue darted out of his mouth and swept over his bottom lip. Sherlock found it terribly distracting.

 

"I'm not exactly the most popular god, you have to realise that. The thing is, my influence on your kind– humans, I mean, has been great but… you've changed. Stopped remembering. My gift has lived on without me, become separate from me."

 

Sherlock's expression was incredulous. He wanted to laugh in John's face, tell him it was all a bunch of nonsense and useless clutter for his fine-tuned brain, but something stopped him. Perhaps it was the genuine distress in John's voice or the way he was once again gazing at Sherlock like a parched man at a glass of water.

 

Sherlock settled on countering John with a question. "What am I supposed to do?"

 

"I don't have much power left," John confessed.

 

Sherlock blinked. He was unsure what that meant and how it was supposed to answer his question.

 

"What I do have left… when it runs out, I'll be stuck there. In the place I showed you. There will not be a way out."

 

Sherlock's chest felt unpleasantly tight. He wasn't keen on thinking about the experience again, it had rattled him so badly. So that was why. Now he understood John's distress. Still, he didn't see his role in any of this.

 

"And you think I can fix that somehow?"

 

John's face was hopeful. "I had to concentrate hard to appear here. On Earth, I mean. I focused myself on finding help, any help, and found myself in the forest where I saw you. It was not a coincidence."

 

Sherlock looked unconvinced.

 

"You're a detective. Isn't this what you do? Solve people's problems?" The way John said it made it sound like he couldn't believe otherwise in a million years.

 

"Usually I solve their murders," Sherlock murmured, glancing down at the notebook in front of him. He then growled softly and closed his eyes for a brief moment. "Fine. I'll take it," he muttered.

 

John blinked. "You'll take what?"

 

"Your case."

 

* * *

 

Taking a case from a non-human was certainly a first for Sherlock. But he supposed he should be pleased with himself, considering that John had come to him of all people to get help. He had to admit it was a boost for his ego.

 

Even better was having John question him about his research and knowledge of the various poisons he'd looked into. Sherlock positively preened under John's appreciative gaze and his expression of delight whenever he said something particularly witty.

 

Sherlock had just explained one of the cases he'd solved that had sparked his interest in natural poisons – the murder of a rich businessman whose wife and mistress had had an affair of their own and then turned against him – when he saw John more or less _glow_.

 

Suddenly, he had no more interest in talking about his past cases. He leaned forward and fixed his eyes on John, observing him intensely.

 

"You mentioned your powers. What are they?"

 

John shifted in his seat and considered the question.

 

"Well… there are certain things I can do," he said, making Sherlock sigh and roll his eyes.

 

"Couldn't have said anything less vague, could you?"

 

John chuckled. "Okay, okay…"

 

"I can quite reliably convince someone to do as I wish if I put my mind to it."

 

Sherlock was intrigued. That made John sound like some sort of siren. He wondered if John had already used this influence over him.

 

"It doesn't work on just people," John continued.

 

"What do you mean?" Sherlock frowned.

 

John pushed his chair back and got up, disappearing into the kitchen for a moment. He returned with a houseplant in his hands, placing it on the table. It was a sad little thing in an unassuming brown pot that Sherlock had moved out of the way and into a corner when he'd made the kitchen his laboratory. The plant looked dead to him as it was all dried and its flowers had withered.

 

Sherlock stared at the plant while John settled back into his chair. He opened his mouth to ask more questions, but John hushed him. Had it been anyone else, Sherlock would have been enraged and delivered some scathing remark but, for some unknown reason, he closed his mouth instead.

 

John reached out his hands and placed the tips of his fingers into the dried soil on either side of the small plant. Then he began to talk.

 

"You could be so beautiful, couldn't you? So much more than you even know. You could be loved and cherished, and your worth could be seen. You could bathe in the sunlight and never have to cower in the dark again, freed from everything that's crushing you, has been crushing you so hard you've been sinking."

 

Sherlock couldn't have spoken if he'd wanted to. His eyes were glued to John and John's blue eyes stared back at him, trapping him in his place even harder.

 

_He's talking to the plant_ , Sherlock told himself, breath caught in his throat as he listened to the words.

 

"You've been alone for so long, barely hanging on to life," John murmured, looking straight at Sherlock.

 

_He knows?_

 

"You don't have to suffer anymore. You're going to be exceptional, you already are. How do I know? I see it, I see it in everything. The good, the valuable. Let me bring it out again, alright?"  
  


_No. Stupid. The plant. Obviously, the plant._

 

"You'll be alive again and you'll continue to grow until you _bloom_ , and no wind will blow you down or fire scorch you," John breathed, voice softer but his eyes still firmly on Sherlock who couldn't understand why John wouldn't look at the plant instead of him.

 

John lowered his voice until it was little more than a whisper. "So now, I'll give you something of mine. I give it as a gift and bless you."

 

He closed his eyes and drew in a breath, bringing his hands back to his lap only a second or two later. Sherlock forced himself to move his eyes down to the plant and gasped softly.

 

The previously pathetic-looking, withered plant was now blooming. Its leaves were lush and green, and it now had three gorgeous, light pink flowers. John smiled briefly at it, clearly satisfied with his work.

 

"Ah... Persian buttercup," he said.

 

Sherlock was confused for a moment but then leaned forward to examine the plant closer. He realised he recognised it. Indeed, it was a species of buttercup. He began to smile, excited.

 

" _Ranunculus asiaticus_! Poisonous when eaten fresh, like all buttercups, but the taste prevents most animals from ingesting it. I'd like to experience the taste, in the name of science–"

 

The sound of John coughing interrupted Sherlock. His eyes snapped up to observe the blond. John offered a smile that was clearly just an imitation of the much more radiant ones he'd flashed Sherlock before. That was strange. He seemed to be in pain but tried to hide it.

 

"You're getting weaker," Sherlock deduced. He disliked John's uncomfortable expression and the lack of a bright smile on his face. He'd already gotten used to the constant smiling.

 

John nodded but his eyes were defiant. "I wanted to show you. You must understand, otherwise there's no hope for me." He shrugged his shoulders with a sigh.

 

Sherlock wanted to tell him off for using whatever strength he had left in him to do something so pointless but changed his mind. That would be missing the point. The point _was_ , John did truly have powers and he'd given Sherlock evidence of it.

 

"Thank you," Sherlock murmured after a moment. For some reason, saying the words felt odd, like he was performing something similar to John's… blessing? Spell?

 

Visibly relaxing, John began to smile genuinely again. He seemed to brighten once more, and appreciation returned to his eyes. Sherlock blinked, eyes drawn to the jumper John was still wearing. Was he imagining it or did it look more worn than moments before?

 

Sherlock cleared his throat. "The language you spoke in the woods, what was it?" he asked to change the subject.

 

"Greek," John replied as if it should have been obvious.

 

Sherlock felt indignant and huffed softly. "Oh right, _obviously_." He rolled his eyes.

 

"I do not speak it," he said petulantly. Then, his expression quickly changed into curiosity.

 

"That must mean... you're a Greek god," he breathed, not quite managing to keep the disbelief from his voice. "I… wasn't aware the Greeks had a god of flattery."

 

"Sweet-talk," John said, shrugging again.

 

"What the hell is a Greek god doing in England?"

 

John placed his hands on the edge of the table and gave Sherlock an exasperated look. "As you very well now know, my powers are diminishing. I simply focused on finding help."

 

A smirk tugged at his lips. "So… you must be very good for me to pick up on your potential and be dragged all the way here."

 

Sherlock failed at being completely unaffected by the subtle praise. He simply wasn't used to it and it caught him off-guard, stunned him. Avoiding John's eyes, he got up and abandoned his notes, fetching his laptop from the bedroom.

 

"What are you doing?" John asked when Sherlock flopped down on the sofa in the corner of the living area, attention fixed on the computer.

 

"Well, you see, John… my Greek mythology is rusty. Will have to brush up on it."


	4. Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock does research on John and Greek mythology in general.

When John saw Sherlock flop unceremoniously onto the sofa with his laptop in his hands, the blond lit up with curiosity. Although Sherlock didn't look, he could feel John's eyes on him as he stared at the screen, his deft fingers moving across the keyboard to type out search terms.

 

Sherlock had managed to read through a total of three articles that summarised the main figures of Greek mythology when he felt a presence near his back. He'd been so absorbed in his reading that he hadn't noticed John moving but now sensed him standing close. Sherlock didn't turn his head and continued to read.

 

"Fascinating," John murmured behind him.

 

Sherlock grunted quietly in response, eyes flitting across the screen.

 

"This is… a very strange book," John said, suddenly very close to Sherlock's ear. Sherlock froze. He was certain he could feel John's breath on his skin now.

 

John, however, did not seem to be focused on him. Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock saw a hand appear and reach over to feel the surface of the screen. Then he heard John hum curiously.

 

"It's like magic!" John said breathily, and Sherlock felt a shiver travel down his spine. _Seriously_ , what was wrong with him? He was not supposed to be affected like this. After all, caring was not an advantage.

 

Sherlock decided to huff. "It's not magic, John. It's technology," he said as uncaringly as he could. It was proving to be a little difficult though, especially with John's warm presence still hovering so close to him.

 

"You're making the screen all dirty," he added with a frown.

 

John withdrew his hand. "I did not know books have become like this," he said, amazement in his voice. "It is multiple books in one, isn't it? But _how_? You humans shouldn't be able to–"

 

Sherlock turned his head to finally look up at John, interrupting him. "It's not a book. It's called a computer. So, you know what books are. When was the last time you… appeared? In this world." He added the last part as an afterthought, the words making him want to scoff and roll his eyes even as he said them. It was so ridiculous.

 

John moved his gaze from the laptop to Sherlock and then brought a hand up to his face, rubbing his forehead thoughtfully. "It was…. hm. A long time ago. Or maybe not so long? I… I'm not sure," he murmured, shaking his head.

 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "But books existed," he said, hoping to get a better answer.

 

John closed his eyes for a moment and looked like he was thinking hard. "Yeah," he finally said, nodding. "There were books. And _Ares_ , he... he was happy. Very happy. Not a great time." He seemed to shake himself out of the memories and focused his eyes on Sherlock again.

 

When he did, he wasn't smiling and the look he gave the detective was almost chilling. "It doesn't matter. I'm here now, in this time. Don't worry about it."

 

The way he said the words conveyed that he was not willing to discuss the topic further. Sherlock considered prodding more but found himself giving in. He looked back at his laptop.

 

"This… _computer_. It can tell you about us?" John inquired, sounding fascinated again.

 

"Yes. Very conveniently," Sherlock replied.

 

John leaned over his shoulder again, then, and peered at the screen. "What can it tell you about me?"

 

Sherlock drew in a breath, tempted to turn his head again and simply stare at John. Instead, he fixed his eyes on the computer and typed in the correct key words to Google. He brought up a page explaining the myth of the god of flattery. Of John. Madness, Sherlock thought.

 

Only, there was not that much information on the page. Or any other page Sherlock brought up next. Only a few sentences in most cases, some references and name translations. Well. John had said he wasn't the most popular.

 

"He– er, _you_ do not seem to appear in the literature," Sherlock said.

 

John moved away from his shoulder and Sherlock heard a disbelieving huff. "Oὐαί! Not in the literature?!"

 

Sherlock blinked and really did turn his head this time, raising his eyebrows at John. The look on the golden man's face was one Sherlock hadn't witnessed before; it was one of indignation. He had spoken Greek again which Sherlock couldn't understand but interpreted as some kind of an exclamation of distress. For a moment, Sherlock tried imagining what it would be like to be in John's position. To be confused and alone, in the middle of a world he didn't recognise or feel home at, with perhaps only one hope to have any kind of future.

 

Sherlock shivered. It was a nightmare.

 

In general, Sherlock was a very independent person. He did what he wanted, when he wanted, and scoffed at people who tried to slow him down or tell him it wasn't possible. He knew he was clever, and he had always thought that would be enough for him, forever. Now, though, faced with a scenario that truly terrified him, he wondered whether he had been doing things right after all.

 

Had he been in John's shoes, Sherlock wasn't sure he would know what to do. He didn't like going to people for help. It was something he had thought to be a sign of weakness. But here he was, looking at an actual god, a man who was radiant and powerful in ways Sherlock had only started to discover, and he could not make himself think that John was weak.

 

Currently in a bit of a struggle, perhaps. But not weak.

 

Sherlock focused on John again, seeing the discomfort on his face. He cleared his throat. "So, er, information appears to be… scarce. But that's alright. We'll work with the facts. I can see you, and you have shown me things that I am unable to explain without considering that something… hm, supernatural is at play here."

 

It was somewhat painful for Sherlock to admit that he was dealing with something supernatural. He didn't believe in ghosts or monsters; he was not a fool. John had demonstrated himself to be, well, unnatural, and unless Sherlock assumed that his brain was just deceiving him with an extremely realistic hallucination, then he really couldn't disprove that John was a Greek god.

 

John perked up again at Sherlock's words of comfort. He glanced at the laptop again but seemed to be cheered up by Sherlock's reassurance, giving a nod. "Yes… that is true. Thank you, Sherlock."

 

He then stepped forward and did something that left Sherlock speechless. John lifted his hand and traced the tips of his fingers along Sherlock's jaw to his chin and then let his hand hover close to Sherlock's skin for a moment before returning it to his side.

 

Sherlock was fairly sure he had never been touched in such a way. There had been something otherworldly about the touch, something almost magical. It should have been laughable; it had been just a simple brush of fingers against skin. And yet, it wasn't.

 

Sherlock opened his mouth and tried to speak but found himself incapable of forming a sentence. He was captivated by the look in John's eyes which was rather… Were they glowing? He could have sworn they were glowing a fiery orange instead of the ocean blue he had observed them to be.

 

Sherlock blinked. He heard a distant voice but couldn't quite make out what it was saying. He frowned and realised that John's lips were moving. Oh. John must have been speaking.

 

"…and a handsome face." John stopped to smile charmingly, his face now amused as he gazed down at Sherlock who was still looking dazed and had to work on regaining his ability to speak.

 

Sherlock swallowed. "What… what just happened?" He looked down at his hands and squeezed them into fists after realising they were shaking a little. He shook his head to try to clear it and heard John laugh softly. That annoyed him. Was John mocking him now?

 

Sherlock huffed and clambered off the sofa to stand at his full height which let him look down at John instead. He stepped closer to the shorter man and made his face as impassive as possible.

 

"Are you laughing at me now? What was that? What have you done to me?"

 

John didn't seem fazed. He simply watched Sherlock stand up and approach him, standing perfectly still and blinking, his once again ocean blue eyes bright and clear.

 

Sherlock wanted to growl in frustration. He leaned forward to bring their faces closer. "Answer me!"

 

John just chuckled a little and shrugged, pushing his hands into his pockets. "It seems to me you were distracted."

 

Sherlock frowned and looked no less confused. "But I… your eyes changed. I saw it."

 

John pursed his lips and hummed, nodding. He looked curious, running his eyes over Sherlock's face as if trying to determine whether he was telling the truth.

 

"That is interesting. Sometimes that happens."

 

Sherlock lifted his hands and ruffled his already unruly curls in exasperation. He needed things to make sense. He needed confirmation that this wasn't all just his mind playing tricks on him.

 

John seemed to understand that Sherlock was becoming more agitated, and in turn brought his hand up to lightly pat the detective's arm.

 

"I was just paying you a compliment. I assure you, it's quite normal. You might have felt a little distracted as I said, but it's harmless, really."

 

Sherlock blinked. He looked away from John at the potted plant on the table. The buttercup.

 

_Oh god._

Had he been enchanted just like the plant? Bewitched? Maybe it was more of a curse. Sherlock breathed more heavily.

 

"It's not like that."

 

Sherlock warily looked back at John, uncertainty radiating off his person.

 

"It only works if the recipient is willing. I haven't… done anything to you." John's eyes flashed with something akin to guilt and his hand retreated from Sherlock's arm.

 

Sherlock took a moment to examine John's face, searching for signs of dishonesty. But deep down he already knew John had told the truth. That was the effect he had. His words convinced you, got you to understand, to believe in yourself.

It wasn't a spell, per se. Perhaps it could be if John wanted. But it hadn't been, not when he'd spoken to Sherlock.

 

Flattery.

 

Sherlock sighed. He was an idiot, wasn't he?

 

"I see," he murmured, visibly relaxing. John seemed to relax too, that damned smile reappearing once again.

 

"Well, you _are_ somewhat smart. Of course you'd see it eventually," he replied, making Sherlock's eyes widen slightly until he saw the teasing glint in John's eyes which were staring right back at him.

 

"Oh, shut up. It's not like this is normal for me."

 

John's laughter again. What a pleasant sound. Sherlock filed it away in his mind palace.

 

"I think you'd better do some more research then, Mr. Detective."

 

* * *

 

In the end, Sherlock managed to get through enough material about the world that John apparently came from that he understood why the god had admitted to being a minor one. It was all messy, and it seemed that there was a god for anything and everything, no matter how specific it might have been. Their relationships were also rather ridiculous, and Sherlock repeatedly found himself snorting in disbelief at what he was reading, making John raise his eyebrows and inquire about the topic.

 

Eventually, Sherlock got bored. History books didn't seem to have any real answers for him. John, in his current state, was not a myth. He was flesh and blood, as far as Sherlock could tell, and right there, in his cottage. This was not a matter that could be dealt with by passively reading.

 

Sherlock closed his laptop and looked over at where John was sitting by a window, gazing outside. He appeared completely absorbed in his thoughts. Outside, the sun had risen high in the sky and tree-leaves were gently fluttering in the warm summer wind.

 

"Why do you look like that?"

 

Sherlock's words made John turn his head. He blinked calmly and didn't seem to quite know what Sherlock was getting at.

 

"I told you. In the forest." He shrugged.

 

Sherlock shook his head. "You just said you were the god of flattery and that… that this form was to my liking."

 

A thoughtful look crossed John's face. "Yes."

 

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "Yes. And?"

 

John shook his head in turn. "Don't you see?"

 

"What am I supposed to see? Saying that it is 'to my liking' does not make any—" Sherlock stopped and gasped softly. "Oh."

 

He then blinked once. Then again. There was something different about John. Sherlock narrowed his eyes. What was it? He got up and walked over to the shorter man — no, god, staring down at him and trying to figure it out.

 

John simply stared back as if expectant.

 

Sherlock had spotted it. A chain around John's neck, leading down under his jumper. It hadn't been there before. Quite boldly, Sherlock reached forward and grasped the metal chain, lifting it up to pull the rest of it into view.

 

They were dog tags. Sherlock stared at the pieces of metal in his hand.

 

"John, I…" he murmured.

 

"I know."

 

"I read about you. Your kind."

 

"Mm. Noticed. Took you a while. Was enjoying the silence."

 

"John, you're… you're one of the Erotes."

 

John's answering chuckle was quiet, almost just a breathy exhale.

 

"You're Cupid."

 

"Well, that's a bit of an exaggeration and really not all that correct—"

 

"I find you attractive."

 

"So it would seem."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, John is kind of a Cupid. One of the love gods anyway.   
> Also, the last time John appeared on earth is WWII.
> 
> Not supposed to be a 100% historically accurate story, I'm just having fun here :p

**Author's Note:**

> I do not speak Greek so I deeply apologise if there are mistakes in my writing. I just really wanted to write something where John is the god of flattery. It seems suitable, right?
> 
>  
> 
> Το στολή σου είναι παράξενο = Your outfit is strange
> 
> Ἰωάννης = Ioannes/Iohannes, the Latin names from which John is derived


End file.
